


My Way or the Highway -- Whumptober 2020

by Doctor_Discord



Series: Whumptober 2020 [3]
Category: A Heist With Markiplier (Web Series), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Adventure, Adventure Gone Wrong, Blood, Kidnapping, Whumptober 2020, forced to their knees
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-12 19:01:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29514330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doctor_Discord/pseuds/Doctor_Discord
Summary: Illinois stumbles upon somethingbigbut quickly learns to regret it.
Series: Whumptober 2020 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2164956
Kudos: 5





	My Way or the Highway -- Whumptober 2020

Illinois panted, wiping the sweat from his brow as he hacked at the jungle foliage, constantly readjusting his grip on his machete with the heat and humidity making his hands sweaty. He’d been out here for a good few weeks now – first scouring the foothills of the Andes in Colombia, before turning his attention to the Amazon. Sure, El Dorado most likely didn’t exist, but that didn’t mean Illinois wasn’t going to try. He’d done his research, learning from the mistakes of those before him. 

Besides, even if he didn’t find anything, it was still a _Hell_ of an adventure.

Grinning despite himself, despite the unbearable heat and bugs and sweat, Illinois continued to push his way through the jungle, making sure to watch every step in fear of snakes or other creatures that could kill him easily. There was nothing quite as terrifying as being at the mercy of nature, and it was a fear Illinois knew well, and he’d learned to obey and use that fear to avoid winding up dead where no one will ever find his body. Not before the animals got to it. 

Hacking once more at the vines foliage blocking his path, he winced as his machete seemed to hit something thicker. Probably a tree. He pulled the vines aside to allow him through, and – well he wasn’t really sure _what_ it was. It – didn’t look right to be a tree, so heavily covered in plant life that he couldn’t see the trunk. He couldn’t even see where his machete had hit it. Looking up wasn’t any better, since the the roof of branches and leaves all seemed interconnected anyway. Illinois squinted up at the jungle ceiling, before back to the suspicious probably-not-a-tree, and rubbed at his eyes. How long had he been walking now? He could probably afford a bit of a rest before trying to decipher what this was.

With a heavy sigh, Illinois dropped his machete and his backpack, and sat down on the forest floor, leaning against the maybe-not-a-tree.

And _immediately_ , the area _flooded_ with golden light.

Illinois’ eyes snapped open, and he tried to scramble to his feet, but he was so used to accounting for the weight of his backpack he just fell back down. And then he was frozen in awe, watching as rows of men, soldiers, packed into the jungle, seemingly from nowhere. He assumed they were soldiers, anyway, going by the face paint, shields, and spears. In fact, they looked – like they were straight out of murals of Aztec warfare. Ancient soldiers, stuck in time.

Illinois swallowed nervously as he realized he might’ve stumbled upon what he was looking for.

…He didn’t account for it still being _populated_.

One of the men in front – Illinois could tell he was important from the way his outfit was gaudier, bigger, and the way he carried himself – slammed his spear into the ground, _glaring_ down at Illinois. He said something in a language Illinois didn’t understand, raising an eyebrow. When Illinois didn’t reply, he repeated himself, definitely angrier, slamming the butt of his spear into the ground, glaring pointedly at Illinois.

Illinois swallowed again, moving slowly back to his feet. “I-I’m sorry, I don’t –”

The second he tried to move, the man in charge slammed his spear again, shouting something in that other language, and two other soldiers rushed forward. Illinois didn’t have time to even _think_ about running before they were grabbing him roughly under his arms and hoisting him to his feet, dragging him along. Illinois cried out in protest, trying to dig his heels into the jungle floor, but the soldiers were _strong_ , and it did little to slow them down. Still, Illinois’ struggled, trying to wrest himself free of the soldiers’ grasps. “Wait! Wait wait wait, hold on, I –”

Illinois cut his own words off with a sharp jolt of _fear_ rushing down his spine as the tip of a _very_ sharp spear suddenly found itself at his throat. The next soldier in the strict, military line _glared him down_ , and Illinois obediently stopped moving, relaxing as much as he could force his body to, eyes locked on the shaft of that spear. Only the steady, trained beat of their march kept him from injury, but if they stopped short – Illinois could only imagine what it would feel like to have that spear in his throat.

Illinois was dragged through what he now realized were gates, and into the commotion of the lost city. In nearly any other scenario, Illinois would take his time fawning over how well it was hidden, the city built _around_ the forest itself, using the great canopy as cover. He would’ve admired the beautiful _gold_ the building were accented with, the sun glinting of of the streets themselves and the buildings’ valuable designs. Now, he was only concerned with the public _display_ he was becoming, people exiting their homes to watch him be paraded through the streets, Illinois’ pulse pounding in his ears in time with their footsteps, and that _spear_ so fucking _close_ to his throat.

The soldiers stopped dead, and Illinois couldn't help his desperate cry and impulsive jerk to get free – but the spear stayed at his throat, only nicking his skin a little. His heart was _racing_ , he was hyperventilating, and he cried out again as he was spun around and shoved forcefully to his knees. Disoriented, he tried to lift his head, but then what definitely felt like a _foot_ was being braced against the back of his neck, forcing him to bend completely, his forehead pressed to the golden street beneath him.

He heard the voice from earlier, the soldier in charge, and the foot moved away from his neck. Illinois didn’t move regardless, swallowing hard. But – then there was a different voice, one that sounded like a woman, but Illinois didn’t have time to try and process it further before there was the sound of things being thrown down beside him, and he flinched, gasping a little. A quick glance out of the corner of his eye revealed it was _his_ stuff being thrown down – his backpack, hat and _machete_. The woman spoke again, and she sounded – surprised? Confused? – followed by the angry tone of who Illinois was going to dub a general.

There footsteps, slowly approaching.

Illinois lifted his head in a panic, opening his mouth to explain himself – or at least _try_ to –

Only for the foot to press back against his neck, and his head was _slammed_ back into the ground with a force Illinois wasn’t expecting. His forehead cracked against the ground loudly, his nose smashing against the stone, and Illinois cried out sharply. Distantly he could feel his wrists being yanked behind him, rough rope being wound around them, but he was a bit more preoccupied with the increased _pounding_ in his skull and the blood he could feel pooling beneath his face.

The footsteps halted, and Illinois felt something hooking beneath his chin, forcing his head back up. 

Blood and tears were smeared across his face, terror bright in his eyes. The woman only raised an eyebrow as she lorded above him, her foot the thing forcing his attention. Her black hair was cut short, to chin level, her dress golden, simple, but regal all the same. Golden bracelets decorated her arms, heavy hoops dangling from ears, necklaces draped around her, but perhaps the most elaborate and eye-catching thing she wore was her headdress: made of a leopard’s pelts, various bird feathers, with uncut jade decorating the brim.

If Illinois thought the general held power, this woman _radiated_ it.

She hummed softly, eyebrow arching further, and she tilted her head to speak to one of the men standing on either side of her – guards, Illinois assumed – though she never broke eye contact. She said something in some sort of amused tone, and, judging by the way the guards and soldiers snickered, it was probably something at Illinois’ expense. He couldn’t find it in himself to care if he was being made fun of, not when she smirked, and lifted her foot a little more, forcing Illinois to tilt his head back further.

She said something else to her guards, her smirk growing a little.

And suddenly everything was _moving_ again as Illinois was dragged away.

He tried to fight again, tried to wrestle free of the grip on his bound wrists, but that only earned him lost footing and being _dragged_ across the stone ground, struggling to get his footing back as his knees scraped across the road. He was dragged off to what looked like a temple, elaborate and grand – no doubt where that woman lived. He was dragged inside, dragged through what felt like endless hallways until –

He was tossed into an elaborate bedroom, forced to his knees once more, and his wrists bound to the wooden post of the bed.

The solider left.

The door was closed.

…And Illinois was left alone to wonder what the _Hell_ his fate was going to be.

**Author's Note:**

> uwu I wonder what happened to him~  
> I hope you enjoyed this!
> 
> Tumblr: doctordiscord123.tumblr.com


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